


Tiny Vessels

by doctorwholmestuck



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:00:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorwholmestuck/pseuds/doctorwholmestuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter has a midly attractive new patient.<br/>Will Graham has mildly unattractive demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lecter

**Author's Note:**

> uhm this is my first fanfic and i don't entirely know where i'm going with this or how many chapters or anything but i'm trying???  
> /that title is simply there because dcfc is great and i needed a title so creds go to the song Tiny Vessels by Death Cab for Cutie/  
> so  
> loosely rooted around some of the major events in the show, i think (starting ep 4 of S1)

You see the day’s last patient out the door.

After, you clean up as usual: straighten some drawings, fix the table lamp, dust off the armchairs – that sort of thing.  Something dense lingers in the air, or perhaps to your skin. The silence is exceptionally loud this evening; and you stand by the window, savoring the quiet.  20-minutes-ago’s conversation bubbles to the surface, and your solace interrupted.

_“I won’t see any of them anymore. And I guess everything nowadays just hurts – searing and twisting, like a knife being stuck between my ribs.”_

_“What brings the most pain, Olivia?”_

_“The loneliness.”_

And now you’re annoyed.  
You brush away the clinging words, unsettled by the disruption. You don’t just drift into the remnants of a past conversation without warning. That doesn’t happen. Not while you’re in control.  
Even more unsettling were the words themselves.

An unwelcome term – for you, in any case. The state of being alone is a subject for your patients to linger on. Some more than others.  
For the second time that evening, your mind wanders. Lands onto a projection of your newest patient – if you can call him that.

Dark curls, semi-strong build, worn-out flannel shirt, almost worn-out (and yet halfway amused) voice and intensely frightened eyes that avoided making contact with your own all afternoon.

_Will Graham._

The name rolls pleasantly in your mouth as you muse to yourself. As you recall his discomfort looking at you – but not in the eye, of course. As you think back to his obvious unsettlement taking in Marissa Schurr’s body. And his obvious determination, as well.

It’s late, and time for you to leave the office, but you don’t. Words echo in your head again.

Another twinge of annoyance and you finally pick up your notebook, walk over to the floor lamp and switch it off, and exit the room – but more than the notebook leaves with you, and you are acutely aware of it.

_Will Graham._


	2. Graham

The dogs are barking like mad when you finally open the front door and let them swarm around you. It’s dark inside, and you light a lamp on your way to the kitchen, starving.  Pull out some leftover casserole from god-knows-when and dump it out of the Tupperware and into the waiting saucepan.

Dinner is a quiet affair. You sit on a rocking chair and your affectionate pups wrestle at your feet, whining for the scraps of saucy beef you toss them.  After eating several mouthfuls yourself, you push your chair away from the table, lean your head back, and sigh.  Remnants of today seep into your mind.

_“How did you feel, seeing Marissa Schurr impaled in his antler room?”_

You snap back into the present, taken off guard – betrayed by memory as you too often are. Your own, unfortunately vivid memory.

_“Guilty.”_

Said in barely a whisper, and yet it thrashes around in your head like Abigail’s screams upon seeing her friend – another young girl matching Abigail’s own physical description – strung up on those antlers like an ornament on the tree of someone who doesn’t care too much for Christmas. A gruesome, bloody, cheap ornament.

Guilty.

Guilty, Guilty, Guilty.

_“Because I felt like I killed her.”_

You stand up, try to shake away the words – try to make them never exist. Memory floods you and demands to be noticed, to be seen. You crash to the floor. Try raising a hand, finding Winston to hold on to, but everything blurs and your arms feel like lead.

You are fishing. The water is calm and the day is beautiful. And then it is not. And the line is wound around your neck and the water is rising and you are entangled but also watching, looking on from a slight distance as you claw at your throat. From somewhere that isn’t here, a Stag, too, gazes upon the scene.

And then Abigail Hobbs is holding onto the struggling you, pressing a slick blade to your throat. Fixating her eyes onto those of the onlooker that is yourself.

_“See?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still not too sure where i'm going with this oops  
> i don't know if i like writing will better than hanni but i think so.  
> is my writing style annoying? i sometimes feel it really is.  
> sigh  
> /watchin myself wing this fic till i crash and buuuuuurn~/


	3. Lecter

You are sitting in your office, at your desk, when there is a knock at the door. You glance up at it, and wonder for a second if Will Graham waits beyond.

But it is Alana Bloom who stands there instead. You aren’t opposed to her company – she offers intelligent conversation, and a palate you genuinely appreciate.

“Hi.” Alana’s greeting is prompt.

“Do you have an appointment?” you counter, knowing, of course, that there is nothing scheduled in your notebook for the current time. _Nothing scheduled for now – meaning no Will, either._

“Do you have a beer?”

You smile, and let her in.

The two of you talk about Abigail Hobbs, and Will’s shadow lingers in the corner of your eye as you converse.  Your answers are careful, deliberate – but your mind is almost drifting. Holding onto mere tendrils of the current conversation.  And it unnerves you, for you realize how discourteous you must seem to Alana if she notices your half-hearted input.

When she leaves, you go back to sitting at your desk, carefully rifling through your notebook.  It’s no surprise to you that your sight drifts almost immediately to your notes on Will Graham.  At your last session, he told you how he sometimes left the lights on in his house, so that he could walk across the flat fields and find reassurance in what he sees – his house, a boat drifting on the sea.

You have a sudden urge to view the scene yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gah sorry i took like fifty years just to update w/ this half-paged thing  
> but several things happened including moving a couple states away sigh  
> im used to writing poetry more than prose so my chapters are always gonna be tiny oops


End file.
